


The Vitturi Theories

by hafital



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clan Denial, Gen, Heist, Richie Ryan to the rescue, mild violence, quickening hijinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 19:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13037718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hafital/pseuds/hafital
Summary: After that night in Paris, Richie leaves Europe and doesn’t see either Methos or MacLeod again for twenty years. Until one day Methos calls, asking to meet at a bar near Seacouver.





	The Vitturi Theories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadySilver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySilver/gifts).



> Note to my recipient: I beg your indulgence. I know you do not like the Ahriman arc. Despite how this story starts, I promise it is not an Ahriman story. Hope you enjoy! Thank you to my Killabeez for the beta, and for just being awesome.

1997, Paris

Richie saw a flash of light catch the edge of MacLeod's blade as it swung toward him. There were a number of things he could have done. He could have ducked. Raised his sword arm to block. Feinted to the left or to the right. But in that moment, all he did was close his eyes. It happened so fast. 

He didn't think it would hurt. Here one moment, gone the next. Yet, it did hurt. It was pain as he'd never known it before. Taking a quickening tended to hurt to some degree, but he'd never lost one before. This was like every drop of quickening in his body, in each of his cells, was yanked out of him and then shoved right back in, burning every inch of him. 

Afterward, no one could explain what happened. Not MacLeod, not Methos, nor Joe. It was a mystery. When Richie opened his eyes again, he lay on the hard cement hoarse from yelling, doubled over in pain; he found MacLeod next to him also screaming, completely incoherent. Rickie tried crawling to him but then stopped when his head felt like it would explode the closer he got to MacLeod. MacLeod's buzz had changed. Instead of the hair-raising presence that normally faded into the background, the closer he got to MacLeod the louder and harsher his buzz became until it was unbearable. Even from a few feet away it was like screaming nails on a chalkboard. 

"Get away," cried Mac, waving at him, his sword abandoned on the cement floor. His words echoed in the empty racetrack thoroughfare. "Get away." 

Richie fell back, unsteady as he tried to get to his feet. The brain-breaking pain subsided to barely tolerable. Methos and Joe arrived. With relief, Richie noted that Methos's buzz felt normal. 

"What the hell happened?" asked Joe. 

MacLeod wasn't answering, wasn't looking at any of them at all. He hadn't even gotten off the floor. 

Richie shook his head. "He came at me with his sword. I don’t think he knew it was me," he added quickly. "I don't know. I'm not sure why I'm not dead right now."

Methos exchanged dire looks with Joe. Richie had never seen Methos's eyebrows crash together quite so close before. It didn't make Richie very hopeful about whatever just happened. 

"Let's just get out of here," said Methos. "And try to work out the details later."

They left separately, Methos forcibly gathering up MacLeod and leading him off. Richie went with Joe. He couldn't talk much. The further away MacLeod got, the better his head felt, and he was slowly beginning to be able to think. He knew whatever was going on with MacLeod, whatever had happened, it had almost meant his end. He shivered, and felt the cold touch of metal at his neck. 

The next day, over Methos's strong objections, Richie insisted Joe bring him to the barge. As soon as he stepped onto the gangplank, he felt MacLeod's buzz like a screaming agony. It was not as bad as it had been at the racetrack -- Richie could tell whatever caused this change was lessening -- but it was still a blinding pain. 

"You feel it too?" he asked MacLeod. He had to ask from one end of the barge because MacLeod had retreated to the other end. MacLeod didn't answer, and Richie turned to Methos and Joe. "Why is his buzz different? Is it different to you?" he asked Methos, who shook his head. "Why is it only different to me? Do we have any idea what happened?"

What they had was a whole lot of nothing. Joe kept mumbling about ancient deities and Zoroastrian myth. Methos scoffed at each one of Joe's theories. MacLeod wouldn't speak but kept his head down, sitting on his bed facing a wall. He looked terrible -- pale and almost sunken-eyed. Richie tried to get closer to him despite the screaming in his head. Before he got within four feet, MacLeod got up and walked out the back exit. 

Methos sighed. Joe followed MacLeod outside. "Listen," Methos said to Richie, and now that they were alone, he dropped some of his "standard-response do-nothing” act. "I know you want to help figure this mess out, but I'm telling you, the best thing you can do right now is to go as far away as possible."

"You can't expect me to leave. I'm not going to leave him to deal with this on his own."

"He's already tried to kill you once."

"That wasn't him." He nearly yelled it, then bit back his desire to shout. "You know that, Methos. Whether you believe this crap about Ahriman, you _know_ that wasn't him." But Methos's expression was skeptical, and if pressed hard on it, Richie wasn't sure he believed it either. 

"Does it matter if it was him or not?" asked Methos, getting that green-eyed, exasperated, I'm-dealing-with-ignorant-children look. "We have no idea what happened last night, but we do know he -- whatever _he_ we're talking about -- has tried to kill you once. Do you really want to stick around and see if he'll try again?"

Richie felt trapped. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. It went against every one of his instincts to leave MacLeod like this. 

"I'm asking you as a friend," said Methos. Richie glared at him, disbelieving. "All right," said Methos with an eye roll. "If you can't believe that I care whether you live or die, then believe this: if MacLeod had killed you last night, it would have broken his heart. I'm asking you to leave, for his sake as much as for yours."

The aching, screeching yowling that was the inside of Richie's brain lessened even more, allowing him to think clearly, and he guessed that MacLeod had walked as far as the steps up to street level. In fact, it seemed to Richie that he could tell without looking, without any real knowledge, MacLeod's exact position. Methos was standing right in front of him, but even so, if Richie closed his eyes, he knew within a millimeter how far Methos was in relation to him. It was like an itch at the back of his neck, an unyielding awareness. 

He sighed. "All right. But you gotta promise me you'll help him."

Methos nodded. "We'll do what we can."

Two hours later, Richie was in a cab heading for the airport. Even as he traveled through the Paris streets, he knew exactly the position of every Immortal in the city. If he turned to face the direction of the Seine, he was aware of MacLeod from across the expanse of the city. It was like a bright spot burning in the distance. He didn't know how he knew this, but the knowledge existed, right there, if he turned any part of his attention to it. Different than an Immortal buzz, but present all the same. 

Richie couldn't say whether he believed that Ahriman was real, but as he sat back in his airplane seat, he thought he heard a low growling laughter and the sensation of something breathing down his neck.

The plane sped down the runway. Inertia pressed Richie into his seat, and they lifted up into the air, the bright ribbon of the Seine shrinking smaller and smaller. It would be over twenty years before he saw MacLeod again. 

 

 

2017, A few miles outside of Seacouver

At first, it seemed like a typical sports bar -- loud and full of college kids. Richie blew on his chilled fingers as he headed for the front door, stepping out of the way of an intoxicated couple weaving haphazardly through the parking lot. 

Pool tables crowded the middle of the large open space, and along one side were two beer pong tables. In the back, Richie spotted several groups playing darts. Music thumped loudly, and it took Richie ten minutes just to order a beer. It seemed normal, but the itch at the back of Richie's neck spoke otherwise. There was a dense, contained power several feet below the ground, watching and waiting. He could sense it, and noticed the access point to the basement that was near the hallway leading to the bathrooms. But aside from that, there were no other Immortals. The closest Immortal was still a couple of miles away. 

Richie had long since stopped wondering how he knew this. Now, he accepted that he knew the relative position of every Immortal instinctually. Ever since Paris, when whatever happened happened, this knowledge had been there, sitting in his brain. It used to drive him crazy, but he'd learned to untangle the mess of conflicting instincts that warred within him every time he became aware of an Immortal nearby. Normally, he would have asked MacLeod for advice, and together they might have figured out what happened. But he couldn't do that, not anymore. He'd called Joe, but as soon as Richie had him on the phone, he knew he couldn't burden Joe with this. Joe was a Watcher. If he knew that Richie had the equivalent of the GPS coordinates of every Immortal in the world, potentially, inside his brain…he was afraid of what that might mean. He trusted Joe, but he didn't trust the Watchers. That left Methos. 

When he told Methos, he was silent on the other end of the phone for several minutes before he spoke. "Well, it's not normal. I've never heard of anything like it. I'll see what I can find out. I wouldn't hold my breath, though. In the meantime, why don't you just live your life. Don't over think it. Go be happy doing that racing thing you like, or something like that. Live, grow stronger."

It hadn't been a satisfactory answer, and then, true to form, Methos disappeared. Every one of his numbers came up as no longer in service, and neither Joe nor Amanda knew where to find him. Richie was no longer free to scour Europe for him, not with MacLeod in Paris. Richie assumed that part of his life was over, and that he'd never see either MacLeod or Methos again. And then, one night two days ago out of the blue, he got a call from Methos asking him to meet at a bar ten minutes outside of Seacouver. 

A group of women pushed in along the bar beside him, trying to get the bartender's attention. They were clearly all friends out for a night of fun, taking each other's orders. 

"Hi," he said to one of the women when she almost fell into his lap. "Let me help you there. You got it?" He gave her his most winning smile. 

"Oh, sorry," she said, laughing. She had long brown hair swept to one side, and large dangling hoop earrings. "Didn't mean to fall on you. Or maybe I did!"

"It's quite all right," he said. "Either way."

Her girlfriends crowded around her when they realized whom she was talking to. They whispered and laughed, and then tugged her away to go sit at one of the tables. She smiled at Richie, waving her fingers. "Come on, Debbie," said one of the other women. "He's like twelve years old, you cradle robber."

With a sigh, he turned to face the mirror behind the bar. The women were in their early to mid-thirties -- younger than him, technically -- but he still looked his perpetual twenty years old. 

Richie turned slightly to glance behind him. He had known the moment Methos had driven into the parking lot, and then when he entered the bar, the Immortal presence temporarily overcoming all other senses. "Are you just going to stand there?"

Methos smirked at him. "Better luck next time," he said, with a nod at the women that were now playing darts. 

"Yeah, yeah," groused Richie, then he got further annoyed when Methos ordered a beer without having to wait for the bartender's attention, taking the now empty seat beside Richie at the bar. Methos looked exactly the same. Same haircut, same smug expression. Richie even suspected he wore the same black duster, jeans, and grey sweatshirt. 

"What?" asked Methos when he caught Richie glaring at him.

"You said you would get back to me."

"Oh, for…" said Methos. He eyed Richie up and down. "Have you been nursing hurt feelings all this time? I said I'd look into it. You seem to have done all right for yourself. Still alive, aren't you? Still getting into messes, struggling with moral quandaries. Having more than your fair share of women refusing your advances. What more could you want?"

Richie narrowed his eyes. It seemed to him that Methos had probably been keeping tabs on him. He was about to respond but the knowing gleam in Methos's eyes stopped him. 

"Besides," said Methos, taking a swallow from his beer but keeping his bird-bright gaze on Richie. "I've been given to believe you could have found me any time. Why didn't you?" he asked, as if honestly curious. 

The question made Richie pause. Why hadn't he? In the twenty years since Paris, he hadn't even tried. He could have, if he had wanted to. He didn't have every Immortal's name in his head. He wasn't a walking Watcher database, but since he knew Methos already, if he had wanted to he could have found him. "I don't know," he said. "If you were trying that hard to avoid me, it seemed rude to chase after you. I didn't want you to get the wrong idea."

Methos continued to smirk at him giving Richie the impression that he thought Richie entirely too predictable. 

"Okay, fine. You called. I'm here. Why _am_ I here?" asked Richie. 

With his elbows on the bar, Methos leaned back, giving off that causal languid look of his. Some things never change, thought Richie. "I need your help with something."

"Is that something the something that's currently stashed in the basement of this building? Or is it the other Immortal that's on his way and who should be here in," Richie checked his watch, "oh, another five minutes or so, with traffic." 

He was pleased to see a crease of unease cross Methos's face, a mixture of suppressed shock and a trace of astonishment. 

"A ha," said Richie, pointing his finger at Methos. "So, I can surprise you."

"Yes, obviously it has something to do with what's in the basement," said Methos, irritated. 

"Well, let's go then. Get this pony show on the road."

Methos didn't move. "All in good time."

"Out of curiosity," asked Richie. "Why ask me for help? Why not Mac?"

Methos met his eyes for one solid full second but then he slid his attention to the women who were still having a good time playing darts. "MacLeod can't help on this one."

Richie wanted to press for answers. Without knowing any of the details, this seemed exactly the sort of thing to bring MacLeod in on. Not to mention exactly the sort of thing that Methos would want to avoid. MacLeod and Methos seemed to have swapped and Richie was dying to understand why. But he heard an unbending, inflexible note in Methos's reply and he knew he wouldn't get anywhere. Instead he asked, "How is he?"

He'd like to have said he hadn't dwelled on his former friend, mentor, and teacher, but that would be a flat out lie. Over the years, Richie had shoved whatever bitterness, anger, love, confusion, and grief to the side but it had always been there. Now, though, in the presence of someone who brought all those memories back, his unfixed emotions softened, and he only wanted to know that MacLeod was safe, and happy -- as happy as any Immortal could be. 

Methos pinned him with his sharp green-eyed gaze, but then he changed position on his stool to face Richie. "Do you know anything about quickenings?"

"Quickenings?" asked Richie, struggling with the topic change. "You mean, the light shows, the--" he made several _swish swish_ gestures, his fingers slicing across his throat, "--those quickenings?" 

"Yes," said Methos. "Those quickenings. There was a thirteenth century Watcher scholar by the name of Smeraldo Giovanni Paulo Vitturi. He wrote a two hundred thousand word treatise on quickenings." 

"Smeraldo?" asked Richie. "That can't be a real name."

"Most modern researchers dismiss him as a crackpot."

"Naturally."

"And he was a bit long-winded--"

"Is this when you tell me your real name is Smeraldo?" asked Richie. 

Methos ignored him. "--and most of what he wrote can be dismissed as nonsense, but the point of the treatise is actually quite clear and precise. At the end, the treatise results in three basic theories on quickenings. Called, you guessed it, The Vitturi Theories."

"That is a good title. And you're going to tell me what those are," said Richie. 

"The first one is the most commonly held theory, traditionally believed to be accurate by Watchers and Immortals alike. That a quickening is an Immortal's soul. Some prefer to call it power and knowledge but that's just another word for soul. This is lent credence by long held belief, mostly in Christian societies, that a fetus in a womb 'quickens' when it receives its soul. Usually around the twelve week mark. Mothers have said to have felt the moment when the child in their womb 'quickens.' It's also in Corinthians, in the bible. 'the last Adam was made a quickening spirit.'"

"The last Adam? Just a coincidence I guess, huh?" asked Richie.

"What is a soul?" continued Methos without pause. "What is the nature of a soul? Is this why, on occasion, after absorbing a quickening, an Immortal takes on characteristics of the Immortal they just killed?"

"Uh," said Richie, shifting in his seat. Since that time when he took Alec Hill's head, the thought that quickenings could hold more than just power, that they might carry part of the dead Immortal's essence of being, had made him feel a bit queasy. "And the second theory?"

"The second theory refers to the Gathering. Vitturi dropped the ball on this one, because it has less to do with the nature of what a quickening is, and more to do with its effect. Nevertheless, the second theory states that quickenings literally quicken the Gathering, in the dual meaning of 'make faster' as well as 'give life.' If one were to place the Gathering at a fixed point in time, sometime in the future let's say--"

"Far in the future."

"--far far in the future. Then each head taken only gets us one step closer. Eventually we'll run out of Immortal heads, and as they say, There Can Be Only One. But Vitturi posits that a quickening speeds up the process exponentially. It is a literal quickening, steamrolling like a snowball faster and faster toward the Gathering. 

"Oh, jeez. Why are you telling me this?" asked Richie, but Methos seemed unconcerned for Richie's nerves but instead stared at his beer, deep in thought. "And the third theory? Don't keep me hanging. Tell me that's a better theory. Like, no really, quickenings are actually friendly handshakes from beyond the grave and the Gathering was nothing but a stress dream from some whackjob who lived a gazillion years ago."

"Well," said Methos conversationally. "The third theory is the strangest and most dismissed of them all. Modern scholars believe Vitturi was high on mushrooms when he wrote it."

"This Smeraldo guy sounds like a lot of fun at parties. Come on. Lay it on me. This has a point, right? Let's get to the point."

"It has to do with time," said Methos, and he looked straight at Richie when he said it. "Vitturi's Third Theory is that quickenings are part of a web of time."

"Web of time." Richie didn't even bother making it a question. 

"Okay, well, he went into more detail didn't he -- two hundred thousand words mind you -- but essentially yes. If you prescribe to Vitturi's Third Theory, then a quickening is the entire scope of an Immortal's life condensed into power. That power is time. The time the Immortal lived, from first death to final death, reduced and distilled and purified down to its pure essence: time."

Richie blinked at Methos. "That's like straight out of Star Trek."

"Yes. In the early nineties a bunch of Watchers proposed a research project to study Vitturi's Third Theory, but as you can guess, it was denied. No one can bottle a Quickening. You can't run tests on one, test for time particles or whatever."

The hairs at the back of Richie's neck rose up, but he convinced himself it was because the second Immortal had entered the bar and not because of anything Methos had said. 

"Ah. Finally," said Methos, looking over to the door. 

Richie turned to see who it was. He didn't know what he was expecting. Some part of him had hoped, or feared, that it would be MacLeod even though he knew it wouldn't be, and when he turned and saw who it was, he felt a sinking disappointment that it wasn't MacLeod after all. Instead, he looked behind him and found the crooked smile of Cory Raines greeting him. "Him?" he said, outraged. "You asked this guy to come here? No, no. I'm sorry, but no. I'm not working with him."

"It's good to see you, too, sunshine," said Cory. "I'm guessing you missed me."

 

 

The Basement

Richie turned to Methos in complete disbelief. "You can't be serious. You're not expecting the two of us to work together, are you?"

Methos ignored him, speaking to Cory. "What took you so long?"

"I told you I might be late, " cried Cory. "The soup kitchen was really busy, and then, oh my God you would not believe this family that came in right at the end of my shift. A young couple, and their two little twin boys. They had matching outfits."

"I'm sure it was precious," said Methos.

"I had to make sure they got settled properly," continued Cory.

"Excuse me," said Richie, interjecting. He pointed at Cory, then he pointed at Methos. "Do you know that he ran me over, while I was on my motorcycle?"

"Wow," said Cory. "That was like, over twenty years ago. You really hang on to things, don't you?" He narrowed his eyes. "You must get that from MacLeod."

"He does, unfortunately," said Methos. 

"And then," said Richie, because he wasn't done yet. "He ran me over a second time. Again. TWICE." He held up two fingers for emphasis. 

Methos was looking at him with pursed lips and a calculating expression. Richie expected him to say, "Boy, that must have sucked," or maybe even "Gee, I hope he didn't damage your bike." Instead, Methos shook himself out of his thought loop and turned to Cory. "Well, did you get the stuff?"

"The what?" asked Cory, blankly, then added, "Oh, right. Yes. It's all here. There's notes in the margins." He took out an iPad from an inside pocket, accessing what looked like floor plans and maps and handing it to Methos. "Listen, kid," he said. Richie bristled. "I gotta hand it to you. You took it like a champ."

"Oh, my God," said Richie. "Do you believe this guy?"

"No seriously," said Cory. "I know I gave you a hard time. But you turned out okay, right? I mean look at you. Still out there… doing what you do. What do you do?"

"I don't have to take this," said Richie. He had nothing to prove. So maybe his life had been somewhat random and haphazard for the past twenty years, but he was doing all right for himself. He had a life he was proud of. 

"Okay, okay," said Cory, in an irritatingly placating tone. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. We're all adults here. Mostly."

Richie started sputtering. 

"Stop winding up the children," said Methos deadpan, without looking up from studying the iPad. "Everything looks in order. We're set for tomorrow? The helicopter? Everything?"

Cory nodded. There was an immediate change in energy from both Cory and Methos. "Yes, all set."

"I don't want to wait any longer. It's not looking good," said Methos. 

"Have you been down there?"

Richie ping ponged back and forth between them. "Guys. Care to fill me in?"

"I was waiting for you," said Methos, answering Cory. "And I had to greet young Richard here," he added with a crinkly grin, but then he grew serious again. "She's been with him this whole time."

She? thought Richie. "No time like the present," said Cory. "Lead the way."

He gestured toward the hallway and the door to the basement. Caught up with their conversation, Richie had almost forgotten that they were in a crowded bar, with people jostling all around and the unrelenting bass of rock music. Methos and Cory began to walk toward the door leading to the basement. 

Richie stubbornly refused to move. Methos turned to him. "Are you just going to stand there?" asked Methos, throwing Richie’s words back at him. Richie didn't much appreciate being manipulated into whatever dangerous and horrible business Methos had going here. "You came all this way, and you're not even going to see what's in the basement?" asked Methos, his eyes widening in a taunting manner. 

Damn him, thought Richie. He'd been trying to ignore the dense pull of energy emanating from the basement since entering the bar. It tugged at his feet, wanting to swallow him up from below. "Oh, all right. I know I'm going to regret this," said Richie, passing Methos, heading for the door.

"There’s a good lad," said Methos. Richie glared at him.

The door led to a staircase winding down two flights, then down another short hallway until they came to a solid metal door with an access panel on the side. The noise and confusion from the bar upstairs became muffled and distant. With the decrease in noise, the pulse of energy behind the door increased into a dull throbbing hum. And then, as he stepped closer, Richie felt Immortal presence flood over him. This presence had an edge, and it sliced through him, hard and unyielding, setting his teeth rattling in his head. 

Cory waited for Methos, who entered in the code. When the door opened, it let out a hiss of pressurized air. They filed inside. It was a dark antechamber, the only light coming from a wall of monitors showing the same image from different angles. The door closed behind him with a sucking noise. It was absolutely silent, oppressively still. Richie couldn't hear the noise from the bar at all, couldn't even feel any vibration. As his eyes adjusted, he began to recognize the shape of tables and monitors and computer equipment. There was a twin bed pushed into a corner with slept-in blankets and a pillow.

Richie stepped closer, trying to make out the image on the monitors. It showed a man in some kind of glass cage. Cory also studied the monitors, but Methos sat at a computer and seemed to be checking readings and examining data. Richie couldn't read Cory's expression at all.

"Who is that?" he asked. The monitor picture wasn't very clear. He couldn't make out many details or features. Dark hair, white skin. The man wore some sort of collar around his neck that had a blinking light on it.

Cory didn't answer. Methos stood up, apparently finished checking whatever he had been checking. He went to another door that Richie hadn't noticed before and opened it, indicating Richie should walk through. "Come this way and see for yourself," he said. 

On the monitor, Richie saw a door open, and realized it was the same door. With a look at Cory and then another at Methos, he let out a breath and stepped through the door, down a few steps, and into a second room. 

Richie's heart thumped hard and fast in his chest. He felt almost dizzy with fear and trepidation, and he realized that he was truly terrified to see who was in the glass cage. His fear overpowered the ever-present noise in his head, leaving only the pounding of his blood pumping fast and hard. 

As he approached the center of the room, he couldn't help but search for identifying features. The man had his back to them so Richie couldn't see his face. He was tall, well built. He had longish dark hair, and he wouldn’t turn around. "I see you've all brought me some fresh company. That's kind of you," said the man, speaking with a southern drawl. 

All at once, Richie felt lightheaded with relief. It wasn't MacLeod. It had been an irrational fear, but he was relieved all the same. 

Methos appeared on his left side, his attention on the glass cage. "I'm not sure if the two of you have ever met. Richard, this is Matthew McCormick. Special Agent of the FBI. And Matthew, meet Richard Ryan."

"You're MacLeod's young pup," said Matthew, turning around to face the room. He stood in a circle of light, glowing in his white jump suit. "Come here," he coaxed, waving Richie closer. "No, it's all right. I can't do a damn thing from in here. You can come closer, it's all right. That's it."

Uncertain why he was hesitating, Richie stepped right up as close as he could to the glass. Matthew studied him, his eyes roving over Richie's face. "What did you do to get thrown in there?" asked Richie. He had thought Matthew McCormick was one of the good guys. 

Matthew's face twitched, his eyes shifting to look at something behind Richie's shoulder. "Not nearly enough, in my opinion, to justify this incarceration. I killed a few who deserved to go. Part of my job, isn't it, to kill the bad guys." 

Matthew bared his teeth and Richie felt a twang of unease deep in his belly. He couldn't say why but it seemed to him as if Matthew was hiding some kind of monster inside of him. Richie saw glimpses of the monster in the black of Matthew's pupils, prowling with restraint, biding its time. 

A slow smile spread across Matthew's face. "You know, boy. I think you and I, maybe we have met before," he said, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. He studied Richie more, searching for clues. "Yes, there is something odd about you."

"What?" asked Richie. 

"Something…" A light entered Matthew's eyes, and he tilted his head. "You shouldn't be here. You're supposed to be dead."

Richie froze. He wanted to step back, and shrug it off. He didn't know exactly what had happened to Matthew to make him like this but it had nothing to do with Richie. He could just turn and walk right out of the room, if he wanted to. 

Matthew's smile spread wide. It made him look crazy. "Gotcha," he said, and then began to pound against the glass wall with both of his fists. It made Richie jump in surprise. Matthew howled like a wild animal, hitting the glass over and over again. He took a step back, and rammed his shoulder against the unforgiving glass. 

"Jesus," said Richie, getting away from Matthew and from the cage. It clicked then, what had happened. He turned to Methos and Cory. "It's a Dark Quickening. That's what this is."

"You see now," said Methos. "Why MacLeod couldn't help with this."

Breathing as though he'd just sprinted up the stairs, Richie nodded. He was in complete agreement. MacLeod shouldn't even be in the same state. He wouldn't have doubted MacLeod's intentions -- to help Matthew, to avoid taking his head at all costs -- but it would have been too great a risk. 

Matthew continued to slam against the glass cage hard enough that he injured himself. There was spit and blood splattered against the glass. Cory had walked closer, and then sat down against the side of the cage with his back to the wall. Folded up, knees to his chest, Cory looked young as he watched Matthew slowly wind down, getting tired, his chest heaving. Eventually, Matthew sat on the ground and then inched his way closer and closer to Cory, until they both sat shoulder to shoulder with the glass in between. 

"So what did you do the last time? With Mac? Can't we just do that again?" asked Richie. 

Methos shook his head. "The holy spring won't work this time."

"Why not?"

"Mac was fighting it, and almost winning. The Dark Quickening hadn't subsumed his true self, not completely. Every moment, the real Duncan MacLeod was fighting to win. Pushing it back. If left on his own, if he had the strength to stop killing, MacLeod might have beaten it. He would have been the victor, regained mastery over his own soul. Deep down, the Dark Quickening couldn't touch his core. The holy spring just… pushed him all the way into the light. He's a good man. MacLeod doesn't know how to be anything else."

"Matthew's a good man," said Cory, with no heat or emotion. He said it plainly, placing his hand flat against the glass. Matthew slumped on side, fallen in on himself, but he did the same and placed his hand on the glass to match Cory. "He's the best man I know. I've ever known."

"Yes," said Methos. "He is a good man. And that’s the reason we have any hope now. But he hasn't had the benefit of Sean Burns's quickening to counter the darkness. Unless you can drum up another like him, willing to sacrifice him or herself? This happened weeks ago, and he's only gotten worse. I'm not certain how much of Matthew is still in there."

"We gotta try, don't we?" asked Richie. "We can't just leave him like this, locked in a cage. If the holy spring is the only option, then we have to try."

"It's not the only option. That's why you're here."

Richie stared at Methos. What could he do? Why was he even here? Methos met Richie's stare directly and held it for a moment too long before he raised the iPad to eye level, showing the floor plans and the maps. "We need your help to steal this," he said, and flipped the image on the iPad to show a jeweled crystal with the words "The Methuselah Stone" written underneath it. 

"You want me to steal what now?" he asked, taking the iPad from Methos to study the picture. "Wait a second. Is this that crazy thing Amanda told me about? Isn't it at the bottom of a river somewhere?"

"Never underestimate the resourcefulness of the Watchers. They had teams secretly diving into that river at night for years, eventually collecting all of the pieces. All of them except for one. They're kept at a Watcher facility in northern Canada, in a vault. Or two."

Richie made a face at Methos, but then returned to look at the specs in the iPad, whistling when he got to the part outlining the security system. "And the missing piece?" he asked. 

Methos lifted up a fist, then opened his palm. In the center lay one white crystal. It looked innocent and ineffectual. "Borrowed it from Amanda."

"Borrowed it?"

"Yes, borrowed it," said Methos, affronted. "What do you take me for? Are you in or not? I need to know."

"Oh, I have a choice? That's funny. I didn't realize."

"Of course you have a choice," said Methos. "Honestly. Kids these days. Nothing but complaining. Why do you think I dragged you down here? It's not for your charming company."

"How's this rock thing--"

"Stone."

"--Stone thing supposed to help Matthew? I thought it was a big hoax."

Methos shook his head. "No one quite knows what the Methuselah Stone is capable of, but it's definitely not a hoax. Vitturi wrote three chapters of his treatise on the Stone."

"Oh, God, not Vitturi again," said Richie.

The room fell silent. Cory and Matthew hadn't moved, and the only other noise came from the buzzing of the overhead light. 

Methos's voice carried lightly over the static in the room. "The Stone is a powerful object. It has an effect on an Immortal's quickening. There have been recorded incidences of this throughout time, since before I was born." He paused, then shook his head. "Believe me, it is the best chance we have."

"So, this has been done before, right?" Richie watched Methos closely. He thought he knew the old man well enough to catch any sign of hesitation or uncertainty. "The Stone and a Dark Quickening."

Methos waggled his head. "Some references, yes."

"And did it work? Did it get rid of the Dark Quickening?"

Methos pursed his lips again, then shrugged. "Are you in?"

Richie sighed. "I don't know. What's our back up, if this doesn't work? What do we do then? We can't leave him locked up in this cage. No matter what he is, or what he's done. Are you going to fight him? Is Cory? 'Cause I gotta tell you, that is a spectacularly bad idea."

Methos didn't answer. There was a beat of silence and then, from behind Richie, someone spoke. Richie whipped around so fast he heard his neck crack. 

"If the Stone fails, then we will remote trigger the kill switch connected to his neck collar. It'll detonate and decapitate him. The building will be empty, and no Immortal will be within fifty miles of him."

A beautiful woman, an Immortal, stood just inside the entrance to the room. Richie hadn't felt her. Her buzz must have been masked by the overwhelming presence coming from Matthew. But he also hadn't known she was near, or in the building. Something like that hadn't happened to him in twenty years. The woman must be the "She" that Methos had let slip earlier. 

"I didn't mean to startle you," she said to Richie. "I'm Ceirdwyn."

 

 

A Snowy Tundra, Northwest Territories 

The next day, Richie boarded a private plane heading for Yellowknife, Northern Territories, Canada. It was a rocky flight, and he gripped the armrests, white-knuckled, as the plane dipped and swayed. 

He had been relieved to discover that, as soon as they both left the basement, he was able to sense Ceirdwyn, both her Immortal presence similar in depth and vibration to Methos, and also the deeper, innate knowledge of where she stood in time and space in relation to him. His relief surprised him. At times, he thought of this extra ability to know the position of every Immortal as a burden, something else he had to worry about and figure out, something that could potentially bite him in the ass. But now, the possibility of the knowledge disappearing left him strangely bereft. 

It was bittersweet, meeting Ceirdwyn. Cory agreed to remain with Matthew for the night, so Richie, Methos, and Ceirdwyn retreated to a large rambling house fifteen minutes from the bar. It looked like a rental, or an AirBnB. "Do you keep in touch with MacLeod?" he asked, sitting around a fire with the remains of take out in front of them.

She smiled, lost in thought. "Sometimes."

They moved on to other topics, going over plans for the trip to Canada and other logistical considerations. Methos went over what they would do once they got their hands on the crystal. It involved everyone standing in a circle with Matthew in the middle, slicing their arms open to release part of their quickening, channeling it through the Stone, aiming it at Matthew.

"Aim it? It's not like it's a gun. This is crazy," said Richie. "You both realize that, right?"

Ceirdwyn gave him a grimacing smile, and he saw her sadness, the pain she felt at possibly losing her student. Not only losing him, but being the one to end his life. Richie didn't press the matter further, and shortly after they went their separate ways to rest for the next day. 

The airplane made a sharp sudden drop, then righted itself. 

"Why is the crystal in Canada?" he asked Methos over the rumble and hum of the plane. Cory was sacked out in the opposite seat. He hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. "I mean, is there a Watcher headquarters up there? Are there a lot of Immortals wandering around the arctic tundra?"

Methos gave him some serious side-eye, trying to read from a crumbling ancient text despite the turbulence, but he marked his spot and closed it. "They used to keep several of the more priceless artworks and other collectibles in the Director's gallery, in France. Regional Directors also sometimes kept pieces recovered from Immortals."

"Recovered. That's a good word for it."

"Yes, well. Is it any worse than a museum?" Methos shrugged. "Anyway, there have been a number of thefts over the years. About ten years ago, they decided to consolidate the more valuable pieces and remove them from, er, temptation. Also, they needed a larger place to store all that stuff, somewhere out the way, that wouldn't raise suspicion."

Just then Cory woke, stretching and shaking his head to clear it. He immediately started calling Richie all kinds of weird pet names and generally being an ass, but Richie let him run his mouth. He wasn't about to let Cory get a rise out of him when he knew the man was hurting. 

Several hours later, he found himself trudging doggedly through waist-deep snow along the side of a forest-covered mountain, the sky darkening to a cobalt blue. He trailed behind Methos, climbing up to a rocky outcropping that provided good cover overlooking a squat gray building that didn't look at all out of place in the middle of all this white wilderness. He plopped down next to Methos, taking out his binoculars. They had to wait for Cory's signal. 

Richie scanned the horizon. The view was breathtaking but marred by the presence of the building. He lowered his binoculars to search the perimeter. "Not that I'm not grateful to be asked on this little excursion, out here freezing my balls off with you." Beside him, Methos started to laugh. "But why exactly did you ask me? And not someone like, oh say, Amanda. I mean, I know I've got skills. But this is really her area of expertise."

Methos glanced at him, then returned to look through his own pair of binoculars before checking his watch. "Amanda's with MacLeod," he said.

"Oh. Right," said Richie. Of course, he should have known. 

"Besides," said Methos, and he shifted onto his side. "As much as I trust the lovely Amanda--" Richie gave Methos a look. "Well. When it counts. For the important matters, yes, I do trust her, mostly. But as much as I do, I'm not sure I trust her with The Methuselah Stone. She has too much history with it. I worry the temptation would be too great."

"She lent you her crystal," said Richie.

"Yes, she did." Methos continued to look at him, but with a far away expression. Then he rummaged in his pack for their intra aural ear buds, handing one of them to Richie. They each put them in, checking in with Cory and receiving a status update. 

"Hey," said Richie, turning to Methos. "Does that mean you trust me?"

Methos smiled but made Richie face forward to help him with his backpack. "I trust you with my life, young Richard." 

Surprised, Richie tried to turn around again but Methos forcibly turned him back. They hadn't seen each other in twenty years, and even before they hadn't been that close. It was ludicrous for Methos to trust him. He couldn't be serious. He had said it lightly, almost like a tease, but there was an unmistakable weight of truth in his words.

"Why would you trust me?" asked Richie, and Methos let him go so they could face each other again. 

"Because you could have found me any time, and you never did. I can't hide from you, not with whatever you've got in your head. You didn't come after me. You didn't come after MacLeod, and you had some cause to. Neither have you gone hunting, despite knowing where every Immortal is on the planet. You've taken, what, four heads in the last twenty years? Only those you couldn't avoid."

Richie's cheeks grew hot. Just the thought of hunting MacLeod made him want to curl into a ball and vomit. "Don't give me too much credit. Don't think I wasn't tempted. Oh, not to go after you, or MacLeod, God forbid. Or anyone that I know. But sometimes I'd lie in bed and I'd know that an Immortal was just half a mile away, walking down a street, minding their own business, and I'd think, I could just take them out. I had the advantage. It'd be a breeze."

"But you never did."

"No, I guess I didn't. But I thought about it. A lot."

Methos's eyes crinkled, and he patted Richie on his puffy jacket-covered shoulder. "I do love a good boy scout," he said, before opening his laptop, tapping at a few keys. 

His cheeks still burning, Richie huffed. Methos reported that he'd hacked into the security feed, and then Cory said all charges were set. That was Richie's cue. He adjusted his backpack one last time, then began to go sideways down the hill to the electric fence that encircled the Watcher's property. 

A hand on his arm stopped him, and he turned to look at Methos. "When this is all done, you should come back with me, to MacLeod's, for a visit. It's been long enough, I think."

Richie gaped at him. He didn't know what to think, or to feel. "I thought you said it was a bad idea. I should stay away. And… and, what about…" he didn't continue. 

Methos's eyes matched the evergreen trees that surrounded their lookout. "The change to your quickenings that made it difficult for the two of you was already lessening the next day. It's been twenty years. Whatever happened that day, it's in the past."

Richie was flooded with uncertainty, and then nearly overcome with a homesickness that made his chest ache. "I don't know." He hoped Methos understood him. It wasn't that he was scared MacLeod would take one look at him and swing for his head. But he was afraid of going back, of becoming that lost kid again. 

"The two of you have a history, Richard. The mystics might call it destiny. It may be that you will always be too vulnerable where Mac is concerned. But I think you can risk a visit. Nothing is permanent in this world, not even for us. Just because things were one way between you both before, doesn't mean they have to stay that way forever. Come back with me. It doesn’t have to be a long visit. You have your own life you have to get back to, and that's important. But think about it. I know he misses you."

Richie nodded. Right now, he had to shove that aside and get this done. He shook his head to clear it before skidding down the hillside to the electric fence. He waited for the signal from Methos informing him when it was safe to cut through the fence. A few seconds later, he crawled onto Watcher territory, running across the snowy tundra. It was all going too easily. They'd be done in half an hour. Then, just as he arrived to the building, it exploded and he was thrown back into a snowdrift. 

 

 

Willow Tree, Rocky River, Sandy Beach

Richie struggled to get free of the snowdrift, his ears ringing. He felt a bit like a turtle on its back, all four limbs flailing. "Damn it, Cory," he said. "You were supposed to wait for my signal."

"Oh, whoops," said Cory over their comms. "That must have hurt. My bad." 

He stopped flailing, and then saw Cory standing over him, holding out a hand. With a good yank, Cory helped him up, and then began dusting most of the snow off. 

"Have you got it out of your system yet?" asked Richie. 

Cory was chuckling. "Hmm," he said, waggling. "Just about. You make it so easy."

Richie gave a full body sigh. "Come on," he said. "We're going to have the guards on us any second."

Together, they rolled down their ski masks, then ducked into the hole made by the explosion. Red and white emergency lights blinked on and off. Cory took point, and they hurried through a series of hallways. One level down Cory stopped in front of a set of double doors, quickly inserting wires into the access panel. 

Over comms, Methos reported on the guard positions. "Two coming up from the north. Two from the west. You have about five minutes."

"Copy," replied Richie just as Cory finished hacking into the panel and the doors clicked open. 

Inside the first vault, Richie paused to gaze at the many rows of floor to ceiling shelves filled with countless items. It wasn't quite to the level of the warehouse from _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ , but it was still a cavernous space. 

"What row do we want?" asked Richie, scanning the labels. 

"It's not in the stacks," said Cory, but he was also staring at the rows and rows of Immortal possessions. "It's in the secondary vault. A burn room. In the back."

Richie ran forward, Cory trailing behind, until he spotted the door to the second vault. This was a far more complicated vault to break into, and he stepped aside to let Cory work, following each of Cory's instructions. Cory took out a stethoscope, turning the combination carefully.

"Come on, come on." Richie began to sweat, feeling the pressure. Methos kept giving them updates. The guards were zeroing in. 

"Patience….Got it," said Cory, spinning the handle as it opened. He caught sight of Richie's face. "Aw. Were you worried?"

"Oh, not at all. I'm surprised you didn't just blow it up."

"Sarcasm is so unbecoming. Besides, it's a burn room. You have to deactivate it or every item goes up in flames."

"Right. What was I thinking?" Richie shook his head.

"Can we please wrap this up?" asked Methos, over comms. 

The Methuselah Stone sat on a pedestal in the center of the room. The Watchers hadn't encased it, and it lay in the open, easy for anyone to grab. Richie opened his satchel and took hold of the crystal--

_A flash of light blinds him, but only for a moment. He chases the Immortal into a wood. The branches above cradle the sky. Everything is green and golden, and the noise from the highway disappears. The Immortal is breathing hard as he trips. He's an ugly son of a bitch -- a little fat, a little run down. Richie is sure-footed, and stands his ground. He doesn't know the Immortal's name, only that he is unlucky enough to cross paths with Richie. This is about the Game. Mac taught him that when he came after him with a sword in the dojo. The Immortal gives up and they fight. He is no match for Richie. A willow tree provides shade. When Richie takes the Immortal's head, the leaves fall. It's been two weeks since he left Seacouver. Joe said MacLeod was on a tramp steamer headed for Europe. After the quickening rips through him, Richie gets up and walks back to his bike, the willow trees weeping. He rides his bike down the road that continues into the distance, the fresh quickening screaming inside of him._

\--He almost dropped the crystal but managed to keep hold of it, shoving it in his bag and handing the bag to Cory. "You better carry that," he said, shaking. 

"You've got less than thirty seconds," said Methos. "Get out of there."

Richie gathered their equipment, heading for the exit. He was halfway out when he realized that Cory was looking at an ornate jeweled headpiece on display on a dais. "That's the Ashwatthama Helmet," said Cory, with awe.

There was a beat of silence, and then Methos said, "You mean, the one with the giant emerald on the forehead?"

"Yeah," said Cory, two hands ready to grab hold of the helmet. 

"Dude, we cannot go shopping right now," said Richie, gesturing wildly for the exit. "Leave it. Let's go."

"He's right," said Methos. "Get out of there."

"Do you know how many empty bellies this could feed? How many jackets and shoes and school books this could buy?" asked Cory. "The center is always in need of ready cash. What else is here?"

"Jesus Christ," said Richie, and he grabbed the helmet and pushed Cory out of the vault. 

They ran through the stacks and out into the hallway. A shout came from behind followed closely by a spray of bullets. They skidded around a corner. "We're going to need a fast exit," he panted into comms. 

"On it," said Methos. 

Together, Richie and Cory hurtled up the stairs and jumped through the breach caused by the explosion just as a helicopter landed in the snowfield, whipping wind and snow into a frenzy and cutting into Richie's exposed skin. He squinted, still holding onto Cory as they stumbled into the helicopter. Cory took the helmet from Richie, giving back the satchel with the crystal--

_A flash of light blinds him, but only for a moment. He walks on a sunny but chilly day, a breeze blowing. Ahead he sees the glimmer of a river. Jenny waves to him. "Hurry up, slow poke. Don't forget the picnic basket!" she calls. "I got it right here," he answers, picking his way carefully over the rocks. "Did you choose this spot?" Jenny laughs at him. He loves her laugh. It's loud and bold like she is. "Stop complaining and get over here." The rocks give way to a green river bank. He can see Jenny's chosen the perfect spot with a view of the valley below. There is a fork in the river. It splits into two, one stream flowing easily; the other ripples with rocks and boulders. She lays a blanket on the soft grass, taking the picnic basket from his hands. Richie lies flat on the blanket. In his pocket he carries the ring he hasn't had enough courage to give her. He won't give it to her today. Instead, he tells her that he's going away for a few weeks. Since Methos's phone call the night before, he can think of nothing else. At first he wasn't going to go. Why should he? Why open old wounds? Jenny's smile fades. As always, he is struck by her beauty. Despite her disappointment, she leans in to kiss him. "What is it?" she asks. "Nothing," he answers. The twin rivers sing in tandem, and he wonders if he has a choice of which one he should follow._

\--They were being shot at. Richie heard the bullets hit the side of the helicopter. He picked himself up from the floor, only then realizing that Methos had been calling his name over and over again. 

"What is it?" asked Methos from the pilot seat, glancing between him and the helicopter controls. "What's wrong?"

Richie shook his head but he shoved the bag with the crystal at Methos. "Take it," he said. "I shouldn't hold it."

Methos gave him a sharp look but he took the bag, slinging it cross-wise over his shoulder. "Strap in," he said, tightlipped, and the helicopter whirred into the sky. 

Twenty minutes later they landed on a helicopter pad at the Yellowknife airport. As soon as they got out, a fleet of black cars stormed onto the runway, barreling for their position.

"Guess there's no time for sight-seeing," said Cory. 

They ducked behind the helicopter and then ran for their plane. Methos, clutching the satchel, called ahead to the pilot. The lead car skidded to a halt, and two armed men got out, shooting semi-automatic weapons. Methos took out a gun and fired at the car's tires. Cory cried out, a bullet grazing his leg, which blossomed with blood. Richie grabbed hold of him, dragging him forward. He rummaged in Cory's pack for one of his hand grenades, and pulled the pin before throwing it over his shoulder. He shoved Cory into the cargo hold of the plane. Methos climbed in after him. The Watchers, seeing the grenade, scattered before it exploded. 

"Go! Go, get us out of here," cried Methos, panting, snapping the airplane cargo door shut, locking it in place. 

The plane picked up speed. Richie held his breath until he felt the front wheels lift up. They climbed higher and higher, and then he collapsed onto a seat. "Well, that was fun," he said. 

But they had the crystal. He stared at the satchel around Methos's shoulders. It would be hours still before they arrived back in Seacouver. 

Richie tried to sleep, tried not to think of anything at all, especially not the crystal. Especially not what he'd seen when he touched the crystal. No one much felt like talking, but he heard Cory and Methos murmuring quietly to each other. 

It was past midnight when they arrived in Seacouver, too exhausted to think, but they each wanted to get the difficult night over with. Richie knew as they approached the bar that a sixth Immortal was waiting for them. Ceirdwyn met them at the antechamber to the room, stepping aside to reveal Carl Robinson, tall and imposing.

"We're all here now," she said. "There's no need to delay any further."

They needed to zap Matthew unconscious so they could bind him. Grimly, Carl and Cory said they would do it but Ceirdwyn shot them down. "No," she said. "I will. But you both can help."

Watching the students help the teacher, Richie leaned in to speak to Methos, out of earshot of the others. "I can't help but notice," he said. "That you and I are the two odd men out in this. We're neither Matthew's teacher nor his student."

"I know," said Methos. "It might not matter much, one way or the other. The number of Immortals is more important, but I figured it wouldn't hurt if there's a personal connection. It might help ground him."

"Maybe I shouldn't be a part of this. That thing…" started Richie. Methos wasn't meeting his eyes, and it made him nervous.

"It's up to you," said Methos. 

It surprised Richie that Methos didn't insist, but then he wouldn't would he? He'd give Richie just enough rope to either hang or climb, leaving it entirely up to Richie to decide. After a moment, Methos left Richie alone in the antechamber with the crystal, stepping into the cage room to help Ceirdwyn. The monitors mirrored Matthew's image over and over again. In the murky dark of the antechamber, the crystal glittered. He wanted to touch it again. He wanted to run far away from it. His heart pounding, Richie touched the crystal--

_The city looms behind him with its tall buildings and spires and winding highways, but he knows the way from the back of the apartment to the lane that leads to the sandy beach. He takes his shoes off and walks barefoot. It is early morning, and the sand is chilly between his toes. The sun rises slowly, creeping in from the east. The water laps, inching forward with the tide. It is a quiet moment for him. James died so gently, passing in the night like a whisper. He remembers the weight of his son's hand in his when he was child. When he was a man, younger looking than his father. When he was a man, so much older looking than his father. MacLeod phones. He'll be there by noon. Above, the early morning commuters are piling into a transport that will take them to their jobs. The skyline is congested with flying cars. He remembers wanting to race starships once. How young he had been. That was countless decades ago. He turns to face the ocean. In the distance he sees an old sailing ship, sails billowing. The sea is vast and wide and limitless with the promise of the unknown. A flash of light blinds him, but only for a moment._

\--Richie snatched his hand back, staring at the crystal. Amanda's piece lay separate. Methos poked his head back in through the door. "We're ready. If you are."

"Sure," said Richie, and he scooped up all the pieces of the crystal. "I'll be right there."

 

 

The Third Theory

Cory did the final check of the building to make sure it was entirely empty. It had been over an hour since last call, but Ceirdwyn insisted on checking again. They reviewed security feeds and scanned the perimeter. Eventually, they couldn't delay any longer and they stood in a circle with Matthew in the center, his hands bound in front of him, forced onto his knees. They’d chained him to the ground. He couldn't move more than a few inches in any direction. 

"Let me go," said Matthew, sounding perfectly reasonable and sane. "This is taking things a little too far, wouldn't you say?" 

It wasn't until Ceirdwyn held the crystal in one hand, sliding the final piece in place that Richie recognized fear in the depths of Matthew's eyes. With amazement, Richie watched the Methuselah Stone morph and shift into a perfect multifaceted sphere. Matthew snarled and raged hard enough that he snapped the bones of his hand and arm. He seemed impossibly strong in his desperation to free himself, the chains creaking, the cement floor cracking. Matthew's eyes glowed. It reminded Richie of Ahriman, and a chill caused the hairs of his neck to rise, bringing the sensation that someone was breathing down his neck.

"I can't take much more of this," said Cory. 

Methos put his hand on Cory's shoulder. "Hold it together." 

Ceirdwyn took a knife and sliced into her arm holding the Stone. Her quickening snaked forward, sinking into the crystal. Her wound didn't heal, dripping blood onto the floor. As soon as Ceirdwyn's quickening touched the Stone, a rushing wind began to blow, arising from nowhere. The wind spun around in a vortex, buffeting back and forth. Ceirdwyn handed the Stone to Carl. "Hurry," she yelled. 

Carl did the same, slicing into his arm with a pocketknife. The Stone pulsed and glowed. The wind grew so strong, Richie thought he felt his feet lift up from the ground. He wondered if the entire building might spin into the atmosphere with all of them inside, like Dorothy's house in the tornado, thrown into another world. 

Cory took the Stone next, and Methos had to help him, his hand covering Cory's gripping his knife. Together they sliced into Cory's left arm. A high-pitched whining emanated from the Stone, louder and louder, changing vibration and frequency until the glass cage shattered in a cascading shower. They each ducked and cringed. Cuts appeared on all of their faces and arms, causing each of their quickenings to braid together, feeding into the Stone. 

The wind made it hard to see but Richie knew that Methos had taken the Stone. He cut into his arm with an ancient-looking bronze knife. Matthew snapped one of his chains, dislocating his shoulder. With a woosh, the Stone began to spin. It crackled with quickening energy. In the chaos and confusion, Richie met Methos's eyes over the glowing Stone in his hand. 

"Take it," yelled Methos. 

The Stone was dazzling, taking in so many colors. It reminded Richie of a disco ball, and he was nearly overcome with a wild absurd urge to laugh. He took the Stone with one hand, and then everything stopped.

The wind stopped. The noise stopped. Matthew paused, locked into stillness with his one shoulder hanging and the remnants of his chains wound around his arms and legs. The light on the collar around his neck no longer blinked. The others were also frozen in place. A silence so deep and complete sucked the air right out of Richie's lungs, like the vacuum of space. 

But then he heard his own breathing, loud and harsh in his ears, heard his blood rushing in his veins. A version of himself stood frozen with everyone else but he was able to step aside and leave his body where it was. Richie stared at the faces of the others -- Methos holding up an arm to shield his face, Ceirdwyn grabbing hold of Carl who reached for Matthew. Cory pressed a hand over the cut on his arm, his eyes bloodshot, his normally lively face pale and afraid. 

"What is this?" he asked.

It shocked him more than he could say to hear a voice answer. "This is a moment in your life."

Richie spun around and the room with everyone in it vanished, leaving him in a dark blankness. An old man appeared out of nowhere, dressed in robes and a funny black cap, his thick wooly beard covering most of his face, nearly hiding a pair of merry brown eyes. The old man spoke with an accent.

"Who the hell are you?" asked Richie, but as soon as he asked he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the old man was none other than Smeraldo Giovanni Paulo Vitturi. Realization struck him hard, like a slap to his face. "Holy shit, the third theory."

Vitturi smiled. "Walk with me." 

They walked, but they didn't seem to go anywhere. There was no up, no down, no right, no left. It was very disorientating. "What about the others?" asked Richie.

"They are here," said Vitturi, then after a pause, he added, "They are also there. And everywhere."

Oh great, thought Richie. He wished he could go back to two days before, when his life was still relatively normal -- well, as normal as it had ever been. With the thought, he suddenly stood beside a river, watching himself and Jenny having a picnic. "That guy's an idiot," said Richie, recognizing the moment he chickened out, the ring he brought left hidden in his pocket.

"Perhaps," said Vitturi, and the scene changed. He was in the antique shop, days after Tessa died, MacLeod handing him his keys. He was chased by Martin Hyde across France. He was slapping a champagne glass out of Cory's hand. 

He was standing in an abandoned racetrack, MacLeod's katana slicing through his neck. 

"Did this happen?" he asked. He saw his head fall, and MacLeod go down onto his knees. He felt his own quickening ripped from his body. 

"Do you want it to happen?" asked Vitturi. 

"You mean I have a choice?" 

Vitturi shrugged. "Perhaps."

Richie wondered if Vitturi and Methos had been best friends, back in the day. He could imagine them in the thirteenth century, chumming it up, neither ever making any sense, trying to one up each other in weirdness while high on mushrooms. They must have gotten along like a house on fire. 

"It was twenty years ago. And I lived," Richie insisted.

"Ah. If you say so. Then," and Vitturi gestured to the scene at the racetrack, as if Richie should get to it and stop wasting time. 

"Do you mean I can change what happened?" he asked. Vitturi didn't answer. "But it already happened. If I died twenty years ago, how can I exist now to go back in time and stop it from happening?"

Vitturi pursed his lips. "How can a river split into two rivers when it was one river before? What if it split into four rivers, ten rivers, twenty? What if all the rivers of the entire world flowed one to the other? Where would one start? And the other end? Who's to say where a man might exist if he could exist everywhere?"

"Okay, I'm going stop you right there," said Richie. "Why don't we just skip to the end? No need for answers, right? I mean, why look a gift horse in the mouth, is what I'm saying."

"Very wise," said Vitturi. 

As soon as he stopped trying to figure everything out, Richie knew exactly what he needed to do. He stood in the moment when MacLeod swung the katana, holding his hands out to catch his quickening that spilled from his open neck. It collected in his hand, forming a stone. His quickening, his soul, the thing that bound him to this world more than any other, wrapped around his arm, and around his body and then encased him entirely. He knew the forward and the backward of his life. He saw the web of Immortality spread across the world. It connected him to his brothers and his sisters. He existed here, and he existed there, and everywhere. 

With a snap, he returned to the room in the basement of the bar. In his left hand he held the Methuselah Stone, pulsing with power. He sliced his arm and let his quickening flow into the Stone. A blinding light grew until Richie had to close his eyes. It was now or never. With a mental push, he aimed the Stone at Matthew. A beam of quickening arced forward and speared Matthew in his chest. Richie yelled, the Stone burning his hands. Light eclipsed everything -- all sound, all thought, until it became everything. 

The Stone broke apart. In the sudden stillness, Richie found himself on the floor, trying to figure out how his arms and legs worked again. He couldn't hear anything, and then sound returned, and sight returned, and he saw that all four walls of the basement were still standing. 

Matthew was weeping, bloodied and broken. Without having to check, Richie knew the Dark Quickening had gone. He knew it the same way he knew each of their quickenings. Ceirdwyn, her hair disheveled, tears streaking down her face, began to take apart the remaining chains. Cory helped, and then Carl snapped the neck collar off. 

Not wanting to interrupt what looked like a family scene, Richie struggled to stand. Methos helped him and they busied themselves picking up the pieces of the Methuselah Stone. When Richie touched the first piece nothing happened, and he sighed with relief. 

"You should keep that," said Methos, indicating the crystal in Richie's hand. "I think Rebecca was on to something when she broke this thing apart and gave pieces of it away. Keep it."

He gave the other pieces to Ceirdwyn, Cory, Carl, and Matthew, only keeping one piece to return to Amanda. 

"Come on, guys," said Cory, leading the way out of the basement. Richie never wanted to step foot in there ever again. "Let's open the bar up and have a drink."

 

 

Epilogue

Richie and Methos booked two tickets on an eastbound train heading out of Seacouver. In the morning, they said their goodbyes, accepting Ceirdwyn's gratitude and Carl's very strong handshake and pat on the back. Even Cory set aside his usual joking to give each of them a hug goodbye. Only Matthew was missing when they left, but neither Richie nor Methos questioned this. There was still a great deal of healing left to do. 

They both dozed on the journey. The sun felt warm, coming in through the window of the train, and the gentle swaying lulled Richie to sleep. When he woke, Methos was reading from the same crumbling, ancient-looking book. 

"Do you want to know what happened?" Richie asked.

Methos closed his book and gave him his full attention. Richie had debated whether to tell Methos what happened when he touched the Stone in the basement. Methos hadn't questioned him, and Richie figured he'd never ask. He could have continued on without ever telling anyone anything about it. Chalk it up to lack of sleep and indigestion. He wasn't certain what made him start speaking now. 

Richie described what he could remember to Methos, from when Cory and he had broken into the vault of the Watcher facility, until the moments after the Stone broke apart. As he spoke, Richie felt the lump of hard crystal he'd shoved into his pocket.

"I'm still scratching my head over it. I mean, one minute I'm here, in 2017, but then I'm not here, and I'm back then stopping MacLeod from killing me in 1997, which couldn't have happened because I'm, you know, alive. How can I change something that hadn't happened? I don't know, the whole thing was probably just a nightmare."

"Hm," said Methos. "Cause and effect. Time paradox. I believe they call it a causality loop. Most people think of time as going in a straight line, but it really bends and twists and circles around. Or it’s pancakes, lying on top of itself."

Richie squinted at Methos. He could murder a stack of pancakes right now.

"Or, it could have just been lack of sleep and indigestion," said Methos. 

"I'm going to go with that last one," said Richie with a nod. "That sounds right." He settled further into his seat. "Of course, I'm totally going to add 'Time Traveler' to my resume."

Methos snorted, and then they both couldn't help laughing randomly throughout the rest of their trip. 

"Can you still sense where other Immortals are, the way you did before?" asked Methos when they were an hour from their destination. 

Richie didn't speak right away. He looked down at his hands, resisting the urge to reach into his pocket and touch the crystal. "Tell me the truth," he said. "Did you plan this whole thing?"

"Plan what?" asked Methos, laughing again.

"You're the only person I've ever told about the way I know where Immortals are. You were there in 1997. You called me to help with Matthew. What am I supposed to think?"

"You should try not thinking, you're better at it," said Methos. Richie glared at him. "Of course I didn't plan this. How could I?" Richie folded his arms across his chest and continued to glare at Methos. "All right. I suspected. I hoped that your presence would help with the Stone -- I've been studying Vitturi for years. Certain aspects of what happened to you rang a bell. I said I'd look into it, didn't I? That's it. I swear. There was no way I could really know anything. I'm not some kind of insane mastermind."

"I don't believe you," said Richie.

"Which part?" asked Methos, exasperated. "The insane part, or the mastermind part? Fine. Have it your way. I planned the whole thing."

With a huff, Methos aggressively opened his book and stuck his nose in it. Five minutes later, Richie started laughing again. A beat later, Methos joined him. 

In Spokane, they picked up Methos's car from long-term parking and drove for several miles east on Interstate 90 until they reached Coeur d'Alene. It was getting late by then, the sun sinking lower behind the mountains, when they arrived at an isolated lakefront ranch home. 

Richie had always known where MacLeod was, throughout the twenty years they'd been apart. It had been an unshakable knowledge. He couldn't have avoided knowing MacLeod's location if he tried. During the entire train ride, he tried not to think too much about it, about how every second brought him closer to the bright spot in his awareness. He knew Amanda was with him, and Richie's stomach soured with nerves. It had been so long since he'd seen either of them, he had half a mind to make Methos drive him back. 

As soon as he got out of the car, Richie sensed MacLeod's presence. It was achingly familiar, and at the same time wholly new and unknown. It wasn't painful, and that was a relief. It felt different, though, not entirely the same as how he remembered. 

The front door opened, and MacLeod appeared with his dark hair and hesitation, pausing on the porch. They stared at each other. 

Methos brushed past Richie with both their bags and headed up the steps. He paused when he reached MacLeod and they spoke to each other familiarly, Methos gripping MacLeod's arm in greeting. MacLeod nodded back at the house. "They're inside," he said. 

With a smirk at Richie and MacLeod, Methos left them alone. When Methos opened the door to enter, Richie could hear Joe's voice, and the rush of emotion he felt was nearly overwhelming. He walked up the steps to stand in front of MacLeod. "Hey," he said.

"Hey, yourself," answered MacLeod. Then MacLeod pulled him into a hug, and Richie laid his head to rest in the crook of MacLeod's shoulder. "It's good to see you, Rich."

Richie nodded, and squeezed harder. "I've missed you, too."


End file.
